


Martha Was Gone

by theCrowe



Series: Mercenary Group - K7 [1]
Category: BattleTech: MechWarrior
Genre: Gen, Inner sphere, Kentares, Mercs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 21:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCrowe/pseuds/theCrowe
Summary: Somewhere on the Lyran Commonwealth/Draconis Combjne border an ex-soldier drinking away his deamons is approached by a mysterious stranger with an intriguing offer.The first part in the group of various fictions comprising the concepts and background of my homebrew Battletech Mercs, the K7's.





	Martha Was Gone

Hi folks. I've had a big merc company back story brewing in the back of my mind for ages now so it's started leaking out.   
Rather than just lay it all out in one big fat blob of text i'm going to tell some stories in as many different styles as i can think of.  
But i'll start us off gently with a typical man-walks-into-a-bar scene. Could be any bar, anywhere, any time. Doesn't much matter. This sort of thing happens all the time.

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MARTHA WAS GONE

A flash of red caught in the corner of his eye and reflected in the empty glass on his lips causing an irresistible curiosity to pivot the drunken man on his bar-stool toward the newcomer next to him.  
An old man in indistinct dress caught the attention of the barman with a wave of the reddest hand he had ever seen. The bartender produced a half bottle of spirits and proceeded, at the request of the stranger to pour out two glasses, one of which the observer grew dimly aware was evidently intended for himself.  
He drew himself up straight, rousing his conscious mind from its lethargy and turned to address his new benefactor.

The stranger was old, or perhaps he only appeared so. He held himself with a decidedly military dignity that the man had not seen in years but was very wary of. Not LCAF he thought. Is he Kuritan? Or Loki… surely not, after all these years. 

Who was he kidding: they didn’t care about him; they never had. But those hands… The stranger said nothing but stared blankly ahead, a red, red hand holding his glass on the counter as if oblivious to the spectacle it made. Burned red, he guessed. Deep blood red. But not by fire, a chemical burn, he thought.

“You’re a military man, I see.” He hazarded in opening, as much in attack as in parlance.

“retired” the man spoke simply, with the barest hint of a smile. His voice so flat it gave little away.

“naturally” he responded quickly, a little irked and then ventured “Not discharged?” He indicated the stranger’s hand. “the brass didn’t like your taste in tattoos?”

Bringing both red palms into plane view before his face, the stranger observed them as if he had quite forgotten their inherent strangeness.

“Not exactly” he began “though they didn’t much care for it. Nor did I, as it happens. But for them I would not have this blood on my hands, but life is full of such cruel ironies, and few men wish so unforgiving a mirror placed before them.”

“What are you getting at, old man?”

“Was there a reason you asked?”

“Hey buddy, I’ve been here all night. If you ask me it’s you doing the asking, showing up all chummy with your free drinks and mystery chat.”

“Well permit me another question then, Hauptman. Can another drink really quench your thirst or do you seek something else here each night?”

The glass stopped, hovering before his lips at the named rank.

“Martha sent you, didn’t she?” He turned and faced his tormentor.  
“I‘ll tell you like I told her; I’m not going to any meetings. I don’t want your condescension or your pity or your ten step programme” 

He knocked his drink back hard, cursing himself for a fool. Why should he lie to a total stranger? Martha was gone. He slammed the glass back down on the counter. Long gone. Lifting the bottle he began to pour out another shot.

“and don’t call me Hauptmann.” He spat through clenched teeth.   
“does this look like an LCAF uniform to you? Am I warring stripes?”   
He took another drink allowing the fire in the glass to quell the growing fire in his temper. 

“I don’t know how you found me, and I don’t much care. Just leave me alone.”

 

“I am afraid you misunderstand. I am no therapist, Herr Klinsmann. I am a mercenary.”

Klinsmann looked askance.  
“What?” his mind drowning a little in the fresh liquor as he grasped for some flotsam. 

“What sort of merc company recruits drunks and ex-officers with bloody records? Go back to Galatea, I’m sure you’ll find plenty. You don’t want me. You don’t want to know me.”

“On the contrary, your record speaks very highly of you. We know this city was your last posting with the LCAF and we know why after so many years we would still find you here.”

He let the import of his statement settle briefly as he poured them both another drink, then continued. 

“If you wish only to remain here nursing your daemons I shall buy the round and be on my way.”   
He laid enough C-Bills on the counter to pay for the half bottle, and more. 

“but if I may I shall also give you this, should you choose to join us.”

He dropped what looked like a thick, centre folding business card showing a stylised K7 logo onto the counter next to the cash.

“K-seven?” Klinsmann asked, “K as in… Kurita?”

“As in Kentares. A story perhaps for the road?”

“yeah… right.” He scoffed scooping up the C-Bills, leaving the card undisturbed. He drained the bottle’s final draught into his glass as the stranger turned and walked away. 

Klinsmann sat there for some time, ruminating before, with a furtive glance behind he slipped the card into his pocket. He thanked the bartender and after paying his tab he left.

The bartender made a sweep of the counter with a damp cloth collecting the splls and empties and didn’t notice that for the first time in years Herr Klinsmann hadn’t finished his drink.


End file.
